


Ficlet Collection

by harlequindreaming (armydoctor)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Bond!lock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Parent!lock, Trek!lock, Violence, more tags to be added as prompts are filled, prompt ficlet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:02:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armydoctor/pseuds/harlequindreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my <a href="http://thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt">Tumblr</a>. To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this glass house is burning down

**Author's Note:**

> Btw, you guys are free to go to my Tumblr and give me two words to turn into a fic, or to leave requests in your comments! The only rules are that there must only be two words, and I must use them somewhere in the fic. Possible fandoms are Skyfall/James Bond, Sherlock, Dr. Who, Supernatural, Death Note and Harry Potter; pairings include 00Q, Johnlock, Mormor, Adlock (on occasion), Johnastian, AmyxRory, Destiel, MattxMello and Dramione. Crossovers are welcome. I don't do A/B/O since I'm not familiar with the 'verse, and no creatures outside of angel AUs (and the occasional Animagus or similar theme). But I'm always open to negotiations.

**Prompt: burden, thrust  
** Title taken from  _Slowdance on the Inside,_ by Taking Back Sunday

-

Outside of his world of binary and code, Q knows there is only ever one certainty, and it comes written in times of death. The inevitability of it is almost comforting; there is a bullet out there for him, or a grenade, or a knife. There is a bullet or explosion or knife for all the agents as well, out there on the field. Even as he guides them, holds their lives in his hands, they can die.

 _Memento mori,_ one of the Latin phrases they’d toss around at university, when they felt like playing smart.  _Remember you will die._

 _Knowing_ that death is inevitable does not prepare Q much for when he first experiences it up close and personal, much like how theory does not always prepare one so thoroughly for the application. It’s supposed to be a simple enough mission, an extraction,  _send 003 to St. Petersburg help him get the information get him out_. It’s so routine and run-of-the-mill that when the first bullet whistles over the comms, breaking what should have been radio silence, it takes Q a full ten seconds to even register a shot had happened.

Everything goes to hell after that.

003 is yelling  _get me out, where are they Q, I need an extraction team STAT, Q, Q, Q_ and in London, in the depths of MI6, Q is hyperventilating as he struggles to make his fingers work. He’s a genius, he’s the youngest quartermaster MI6 has ever had, and he’s failing. His fingers can’t seem to move fast enough, he isn’t thinking quick enough, 003 is getting  _shot at_ and Q can’t do a thing—

 _Q,_  
and it’s an angered yell as the sounds of running filter through the gunshots,

 _Q,_  
and the sound of a gun chamber clicking empty comes over the comms,

 _Q—_  
and lickety split, the voice chokes on the single letter, and there’s a gasp filled with blood.

“003,” Q says, and his voice does  _not_ waver. “003.”

Never has he wanted to hear his codename so badly than in this moment.

The  _please, no_ is on the tip of his tongue and he only just stops his lips from letting it loose.

— — — — — — — — — —

The burden is evident in his voice, when — after five minutes of radio silence and his hands shaking at the keyboard — he calls it, for the first time as Quartermaster.

Moneypenny thinks she’s never seen him look so bloody  _young_ than when he hangs his head, takes the comm from his ear, and says “agent down.”

— — — — — — — — — —

Bond’s always believed that Q’s not old enough for the job, and this just seems to confirm it. It’s not fair, the sheer weight of responsibility thrust onto the shoulders of someone who looks little more than a boy just out of university. Right now Q is down in R&D, tinkering aimlessly with a smartphone, trying to find the best way to insert a self-destruct machination in its inner works. It’s been 14 hours since 003’s last transmission, and Q-Branch has told Bond that Q hasn’t left the labs since.

He barely lifts his hands to knock when Q sets down the soldering iron with a sigh. “You’re supposed to be in deep cover in Cuba.”

“Moneypenny called,” is Bond’s short reply, as he walks inside. Q looks a mess; his hair is more of a riot than Bond’s thought possible, and his skin is nearly translucent under the lab lights. Bond’s willing to bet he hasn’t changed out of his clothes, either. Or eaten. Probably hasn’t even drunk any tea.

“Did she now,” Q replies flatly, reaching for a pair of needlenose pliers. Bond’s hand is around his wrist in an instant, the other one gripping Q by the chin to force him to look at the agent.

“Q,” and it’s the gentleness in Bond’s voice that shatters the forced calm of the quartermaster’s facade. Q has  _had it_ with people tiptoeing their way around him as if he’d scattered bombs instead of the proverbial eggshells. He isn’t weak, he isn’t  _fucking weak._

“I am  _fine,_ ” he spits out, wrenching his wrist away from Bond and upsetting his work. The phone and its components clatter to the floor. “Death is inevitable, it  _happens,_ it isn’t as if I didn’t know it could happen, it’s the risk you all signed up for, for god’s sake, you—” _  
_

Q breaks off, and Bond realizes this isn’t just about losing an agent. 003’s death has rattled him — hearing death is never easy, and Q is the _quartermaster,_ he’s supposed to be guiding them through battle and keeping the agents alive — but Bond has been uncontactable in Cuba for the fourteen hours since.

“I remember, all right?” Q sounds so heartbreakingly  _small,_ and Bond gathers him up in his arms, too skinny and shaken and bloody  _young._ “I remember you’ll all die.”


	2. double in trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](http://thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: 00Q - Holmes, baby**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

"You  _lost_ Hamish?!"

Q was trying his level best not to either panic or burst into a laughing fit at the guilty, sheepish look on Bond’s face as the agent held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. As it was, he needed to keep his head straight, seeing as Bond had apparently  _lost track of_ his brother’s surrogate child, who was due to be picked up in a few hours. Sherlock had a case, and seeing as Q and Bond had a rare day off, he and John had elected to leave the child in their care instead. Plus, Q had missed the inquisitive toddler.

Now quite literally, it seemed.

"I turned my back for a minute, Q.  _One_  minute to check my phone. I turned back, Hamish was gone." Bond backed up, going on the defensive, and for Christ’s sake, Hamish was  _three._

"You are a  _Double-O._ " Q threw his hands up in the air, gesturing wildly at Bond, tone slightly hysterical. At least he didn’t come out in splotches anymore when he pitched a fit. “You can hunt down gone-to-ground, ghost terrorists in obscure countries with half your equipment missing and their governments on your tail. How do you  _lose a bloody child?_ ”

"I’ve never exactly needed to look after one before, in case you hadn’t noticed," Bond hissed back. Q groaned and twisted his hands into his hair. His flat was a  _nightmare,_ all rooms full of tech and experiments and more books than he could count, which was why they’d kept Hamish to only their bedroom and the adjacent reading room. Q had left to answer the door for the delivery boy and had come back to a slightly panicked Bond and no Hamish. Fucking  _brilliant._

"He can’t have gone far. Most of the rooms in my flat are locked and I doubt he has the coordination to open most doorknobs." Taking a shaky breath, Q tried to rationalize the situation. “He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room or the bathroom, so that leaves—"

A resounding crash cut him off, followed by a plaintive wail. Without hesitation, both Bond and Q darted off toward the source. They found Hamish in one of Q’s unlocked study rooms, surrounded by bits of broken tech, veritably  _buried_ in wires, and bawling his eyes out.

"I’m telling John it was your fault," Q muttered as he hurried forward to scoop up the poor kid into his arms. Hamish buried his face into Q’s shoulder and sobbed.

Bond visibly paled and held up his hands, darting after Q as the quartermaster headed back to their bedroom. “For god’s sake, Q, I  _told_ you I looked away barely a minute—"

"Fine." Q whirled around, managing to look menacing despite the toddler clutched in his arms. “Either I tell John, or you explain to M why the latest update on the wristwatch tracker will take a few days longer than expected."

Bond looked like he’d been forced to swallow six lemons. Q grinned vindictively.

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The next day found a very disgruntled, pink-faced 007 shuffling his feet in Tanner’s office, waiting to be let into M’s adjacent meeting room. Q chuckled at the surveillance footage he’d hacked, one hand holding the Scrabble mug of tea.

An hour of calming down a hysterical toddler was worth finding out that even Double-Os came in embarrassed settings, any day.


	3. unorthodox wooing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](http://thestratospheric.tumblr.com). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: 00Q - sunflowers, blue**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

It wasn’t as if they did it on  _purpose,_ it was just… an inevitable side effect of their profession. Q-Branch was practically Spartan in terms of decor, the only signs of life being either the techs themselves or the not-so-occasional festering sandwich accidentally left behind at a work station (and the odd biological experiment). They had their computers, their swivelly chairs, and their tea. It was all they really needed.

Which was why Q, walking into his office at seven in the morning, dropped his Scrabble mug in shock at the  _monstrous_ bunch of sunflowers sitting on his desk, yellow as you please.

By the looks of the various things scattered on the branch’s floor, his minions hadn’t fared much better.

"Would someone care to explain?" he asked, once he’d regained control of his voice. The flowers were just so — so yellow and happy and fucking  _sunshine-y_ and ridiculously out-of-place that Q let out a hysterical giggle.

He turned to survey his branch. They blinked back in commiserate confusion.

"Bloody hell," Q swore under his breath, stalking into his office and dropping his bag on the desk. He moved the offending bouquet to the side office, where the bright splash of color wouldn’t be distracting, discreetly checking it for bugs or explosives. When it came up that it was, in fact, simply a normal, gigantic bunch of cheerfully yellow flowers, Q was even more bemused than ever.

Then he closed the door and lost himself in guiding 009 through her mission in Tokyo, and explosions and gunfire and a rather nasty run-in with the Yakuza made him forget the things. In fact, when he  _did_ finally remember them, they’d wilted, shriveled petals all over the shelf he’d placed them on. Shaking his head, he tossed them out, and put the whole thing from his mind.

If only he were so lucky.

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The next time it was stargazer lilies, and Q turned beseechingly to his branch for explanations, only to be met with similar confusion. A week later it was white and yellow carnations, and Q resolutely doused them with his tea before chucking them into the bin. The week after that it was bright red tulips, and then two weeks later, actual  _roses._ Q was practically seething; no matter how he checked the feeds, there was always a resolute little skip, and then flowers would be on his desk. It was absolutely maddening, and Moneypenny was not helping  _at all._

"It’s a bit of an unorthodox wooing, don’t you think?" she asked brightly, like the traitor she was, waltzing into his office to bury him in more paperwork. She admired the week’s offering — orchids, white with purple edging — and dumped the stack of item loss forms onto his desk. “Someone likes you."

"Or someone is determined to drive me up the wall in the most creative way possible," Q replied darkly. He’d given up getting rid of the things, simply leaving them on an unused surface and ignoring them until they died. Which, given the minions’ absentminded attempts to water them with tea, was fairly quickly. Though he did notice a slight boost in the branch’s morale, he absolutely refused to credit it to the damn bouquets. He couldn’t for the life of him deduce  _why_ they were coming — there were no notes, no bugs, no microscopic explosives or deadly viruses. There were simply bunches of flowers appearing every day for Q.

Moneypenny patted him on the arm and flashed him a cheeky smile. “Hush, now, boffin," she chided, whirling on her heels and click-clacking away. “Cables shouldn’t be the only thing of color in this room."

Q resisted the urge to fling his Scrabble mug at her retreating back. That would have been childish.

Nor did he glare at the offending flowers before going back to work, as that would have been, too.

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The week after that was 007’s scheduled return from a somewhat long-term mission in France that had, as usual, gone spectacularly tits-up. The agent himself had gone to ground sometime earlier, and Q was fully expecting to come to work to find pieces of equipment and a haphazard mission report shoved halfway to hiding on his desk, as always. What he  _did_ see, however, upon coming into his office just past noon, was James Bond standing by his desk, deeply concentrated on adjusting some of the stems of impossibly blue roses, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be doing. _  
_

The fit Q pitched was very unbecoming of a quartermaster, and he would deny it to his dying breath.

"Those were from  _you?_ " he all but yelped, staring at the flowers in a hilarious mix of repulsion and awe. Bond infuriatingly ignored him for a few more moments, standing back and cocking his head as if bloody determined to get the arrangement perfect.

"Did you like the sunflowers? I sent them express from France, wasn’t sure they’d make it." He grinned as he turned, revealing an intact Walther PPK and the thumb drive he’d been sent out with. Q was certain he hadn’t seen anything porcine floating in the sky, so he was likely dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or drugged.

"You," he said, looking incredulously at Bond, who seemed completely unfazed, “are a little shit."

"The mouth on you young people," Bond tsked, and stepped closer to Q. He held up one of the roses — dyed, as Q could make out at this close a range — and smirked. The blue of the flowers was reflected in his eyes.

"Why?" Q asked, apropos to nothing else, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks slightly. This was making absolutely no sense whatsoever.

"Dinner?" Bond asked in return, holding out the rose. The entire situation — including the lead-up — was absurd — and at the same time had James Bond written all over it that Q couldn’t see why he hadn’t guessed it the first time.

He considered the options, and the way Bond looked in a dinner suit.

"Will you  _please_ quit it with the flowers?" he relented, and Bond grinned wolfishly, in a way that made Q very glad he was still in his coat that hid his crotch from view. “The minions are starting to treat them as pets."

"As you wish," Bond replied smugly. In one smooth movement, he placed the flower back in the vase and turned to leave. “Seven o’clock, quartermaster."

Q looked from the flowers to Bond to a very bewildered looking Q-Branch, and sank into his chair with a groan. Damn Moneypenny for being right.


	4. compromised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](http://thestratospheric.tumblr.com). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: space, breakup, any Sherlock pairing!**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

"Mr. Lestrade, set destination to Star Fleet headquarters."

"Yes, sir."

John watched, stunned, as Sherlock resumed his seat in the captain’s chair, expression steely and neutral and  _not_ what you’d expect from someone who’d just witnessed someone he cared for sacrifice herself so he could return to the Enterprise with his abducted, tortured boyfriend in tow. Molly hovered behind him uncertainly, running him up and down with the biometric scanner to check his vitals, as he’d stubbornly refused to go to the medical bay without checking up on Sherlock first.

He might not have personally liked Irene Adler much, but John respected her, and could recognize that she’d meant something to Sherlock. Smart, devious and manipulative, she’d been one of the very few who’d kept up with him and that massive intellect of his. And now she was likely dead.

"Sherlock—"

"Commander Watson, shouldn’t you be at the medical bay?" Sherlock kept his voice level, not even turning his head a fraction to look at John, eyes focused on the view of space outside the bridge. The farce was good, very good, except John could see right through it. You couldn’t fall in love with Sherlock Holmes and not see his tells.

"Sherlock, we need to turn around, we can still beam her up—"

“ _Commander Watson._ " This time Sherlock  _did_ turn around, eyes widened for a second in fury before he’d gotten himself back under control. The only signs of his snap were his slightly ragged breaths and the slight flush in his cheeks. “We need to report back to Star Fleet. An attack by Moriarty is imminent, and all forces must be assembled to answer appropriately. Miss Adler knew the consequences of her actions, as do I." He flicked his gaze to Molly, who flinched backward at the force of it. “Miss Hooper, please take the Commander to the medical bay and assure that he  _remains there_ for the rest of the journey."

"I will most certainly  _not._ " John shrugged off Molly’s hand on his arm and stalked right up to Sherlock, vein throbbing in his forehead. “We are  _not_  leaving her, Sherlock — I won’t let you, not after I just went through—"

"Enough!" Sherlock stood abruptly, almost knocking John off balance, though he held his ground and returned Sherlock’s glare defiantly. The entire crew on the bridge stilled, Lestrade’s hand hovering over the warp lever where he’d been about to punch it. Sherlock sucked in a breath, visibly shaking as he tried to calm himself down. It pained John to see his lover this way — lord only knew how Sherlock had felt, having to listen to John being tortured, unable to make the ship he’d taken fly any faster. But they couldn’t just leave Irene behind.

"Sherlock—"

"That is  _Captain_ to you," Sherlock spat through gritted teeth, looking more livid than John had ever seen him. “And I have told you to keep  _silent._ You have emotionally compromised me in a way a captain should  _never_ be, and it has cost me the life of a crew member. Now proceed to the medical bay or I will relieve you of your position,  _Commander_."

There was no doubting the vindictiveness of his words. Nor his capacity for carrying them out. The reaction was irrational, but he was the captain.

The words  _emotionally compromised_ stung John more than anything else.

"Sherlock." Softer now, gentler. John reached out toward Sherlock’s arm, trying to assuage, to calm down, but Sherlock snatched his hand back as if branded and almost flinched.

"Do not," he hissed under his breath; John balked at the look in his eyes. “This ends now. I will not have you compromising me any further."

In all honesty, John felt being left at the hands of Moriarty would have hurt far, far less.

Sherlock sat back down in the chair, fuming silently, hands rigid where they gripped the arms and expression frigid. Molly came up quietly to lead John to the medical bay, and this time he went with no resistance. The crew remained frozen where they were a few moments longer before Sherlock’s glare sent them back about their business. John kept his eyes on Sherlock the whole while, up until the lift doors hissed shut. Then, under Molly’s sympathetic silence, he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and swallow back the lump in his throat.

Who was  _emotionally compromised_ now?


	5. mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: disobedience, punishment (MorMor)**

****— — — — — — — — — —** **

 

It had been Sebastian’s call and he admitted it, but that didn’t mean he also admitted he’d been  _wrong._ It had been in direct defiance to Jim’s orders, yes, but it had gotten the job done and that, in the sniper’s book, was all that mattered. But when he got back to the flat a good two hours after his ETA, having had to take a very roundabout route to make sure no one was tailing him, it was very clear Jim didn’t think the same.

Particularly with the switchblade being tossed up and down in the air like that.

"Look, Jim—" Sebastian started to say, hands raised in a gesture of supplication, but the words had hardly come out before Jim had him pinned against the wall — not an easy feat, considering the sniper’s bulk. The switchblade was open and against his throat, tip hovering dangerously over his carotid. Sebastian wisely decided that silence was appropriate for the moment.

Jim’s eyes were menacingly dark, crinkled at the corners in a morbid sort of humor that did not bode anything good at the moment. His lips curled up in a cruel smirk as he traced the blade’s edge down the artery almost lovingly, not even bothering to watch for Sebastian’s reaction. “Now, now, tiger,” he purred, releasing his grip on the man’s shoulder to nimbly undo Sebastian’s belt (and somehow the sniper didn’t think this was one of those times where things ended well and orgasms were had all around). “I think someone’s forgetting their place, don’t you?”

"Jim—" Sebastian, of course, had no chance of explaining himself; there was very little that swayed Jim’s mind once he’d made it up. He strained backward, away from the press of metal to his skin, a foreboding feeling creeping up his spine. Jim took his sweet time unbuckling the belt, thumb tracing over the button before slipping it through. The tinny  _schick_ of the zipper was practically deafening.

"Hush, now." Jim’s grinned widened as he roughly shoved Sebastian’s trousers down and out of the way, followed by black boxers. He ran his thumb over the sniper’s hip, tracing the ridge of bone. "I simply want to give you a little  _reminder_ of whom you belong to, just so you _never_ " — and here Jim dug his fingers into skin hard enough to hurt — "disobey me again."

Sebastian had just enough time for his eyes to go wide before the switchblade was away from his throat and digging into his hip. It was almost surgical in neatness, precision, the way Jim carved through skin, trails of bright red blood snaking down the sniper’s thigh. Sebastian didn’t scream — Jim would make things much, much worse if he did — but teeth dug into his lip hard enough to bleed in an effort to remain as quiet as possible. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the wall, body trembling from the effort not to writhe in pain.

The entire time, Jim kept smiling.

When it was done, Jim snapped the switchblade closed and stepped back to admire his handiwork, dark eyes twinkling in satisfaction. He tossed the blade to the floor at Sebastian’s feet, all humor abruptly gone from his expression. “Clean up the mess,” was all he said, before heading into his room, leaving Sebastian to slump against the wall and catch his breath, bloody hip smudging against the paintwork.

Fucking  _hell._

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The next time Sebastian went out on a job, Jim hadn’t even needed to remind him to do as he’d said. It had just taken one touch to the sniper’s hip as he walked out the door, and Sebastian knew that he’d do as he was told. The wounds had healed but — predictably, as Jim had intended — the scars stayed, the slightly jagged JM stark white against his skin. Sebastian belonged to Jim Moriarty, for all intents and purposes, and that, in Jim’s book, was all that mattered.


	6. always, for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: broken wing**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

It should have been a regular job. There had been traces of a vampire clan up in northern California, and they’d followed the trail down south, heading toward San Francisco. The vamps were easy enough to track, seeing as they weren’t all too subtle, and Sam was collecting the last of the research while Dean prepped the weapons — two large machetes, some syringes of dead man’s blood, couple of lengths of piano wire.

"Heard from him yet?" Sam asked, breaking the silence. Dean sent a glare his way before swiping the edge of a blade down the whetstone one more time.

"Let’s just get these bitches," he replied shortly, and turned away to pack. Sam watched a moment more, then heaved a sigh.  _Cas,_ he thought, looking up to the heavens in consternation,  _wherever you are, Dean needs you._

The answer, as usual, was silence.

They found the nest easy enough — abandoned warehouse a few miles out of the city — and it wasn’t until they were inside, creeping through the corridors, that Dean registered something felt  _wrong._ And sure enough, when they rounded the corner to the main room, all six vamps were lying on the floor — dead.

"Son of a bitch," Dean cursed under his breath, nudging the nearest body with the toe of his shoe. Its severed head lolled around a few feet away, next to the shin of another vampire. A quick check of the room revealed the whole clan dead with no survivors.

"So what do you think?" Sam asked, wandering back over to meet Dean in the middle of the room. "Another hunter?"

"Nearest one we know is fifty miles upstate, and as far as we know Carol isn’t on this trail." Dean jacked the machete back into its rig at his hip and grit his teeth in frustration. "Whoever did this, we ain’t heard of them."

"Oh, but I think you have."

At the familiar voice, Sam and Dean whirled — and there stood Zachariah, smirk fixed in place and eyes menacing. The two hunters shifted to the defensive, machetes — however ineffective — raised, ready to make a break for it if they could. Zachariah’s grin widened, as if fighting for your life against deadly angels was amusing.

"Oh, no, no boys." He snapped his fingers and three more angels appeared, flanking him. "No more games this time, no more  _persuasion._ We’re going to kill you and resurrect you, and just keep doing it in more creative ways until you say yes.”

"Yeah and I’m  _used to_ freaking dying all the time, so  _bring it,_  douchebag,” Dean spat back, raising the machete higher. Sam shifted his grip, narrowing his eyes.

Zachariah cocked an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Be my guest.” And then Sam was flying to side, out of the room and out of the way.

Zachariah grinned.

Snapped his fingers.

Bright, blinding, painful light.

Someone calling Dean’s name.

And then the light was blocked out and Cas was in front of him, shielding him, great dark shadows of wings curled around Dean — sheltering, protecting, shielding. The force knocked them both to the ground, Dean sprawled out and Cas on hands and knees, expression pained but defiant. But the wings cradled Dean, keeping the worst out of the blast, and Castiel’s eyes never left Dean’s once.

Then the light faded, and with it the silhouettes.

The smell of burning filled the air.

"Cas?" Carefully, quietly Dean reached out, touched Castiel’s shoulder. Almost before they’d even touched, Cas cried out, dropping onto Dean even as he fought to keep himself up. "Cas!"

"Dean!" Sam was back on his feet, machete raised, running into the room after his brother. At the sight of the angel draped over him, tensed up, however, he dropped the blade, face paling. "Cas!" Sam bolted over, hoisting Castiel off Dean, distress all over his face.

"Hey, hey." Dean sat up, scrambling for his — his friend, who was slumped forward despite Sam’s efforts to keep him up. "Cas, hey, you okay?"

"Dean…" Cas reached out, gripped Dean’s arm hard enough to dig into his skin. "I—"

"I’m here." Dean reached back, grasped Cas’s shoulder — and immediately, Cas cried out again. The hand withdrew, Dean’s eyes wide in helplessness, confusion. "What’s wrong, what—"

"Dean." Sam’s lips pursed, flicking a significant glance downward to where he stood pointedly away from Cas’s back. With growing trepidation, Dean knelt up and peered over Cas’s shoulder to see—

Two great big gashes with bloodied feathers, running parallel down Castiel’s back. Jagged ends of white peeked through, dotted with blood. More feathers wisped down, the bones underneath shuddering and shifting in what was obviously pain.

Wings. Whatever Zachariah had done — it had cost Castiel his wings.

"Don’t." It was quiet enough that Dean almost missed it, but Cas had used his grip on Dean’s arm to pull him a little closer, fingers spasming over the sleeve of his jacket. Immediately Dean shifted back down, searching his friend’s face for — anything, really. Any reason.

"Don’t." Castiel’s eyes were impossibly blue as they met Dean’s, pained but resolute. "It was — worth it. To keep you alive."

Unspoken, in the air between them:  _it always is._


	7. through all the cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: I'm sorry (MorMor)**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The first night, it’s not even the bloody cement, not even the roof. It’s them and them back at the pool, and Sebastian’s rifle misfires. Westwood stains dark, dark red.

The phone’s in his hand before he even realizes he’s awake. Slowly, breathing heavy, Sebastian sets it back down by his pillow.

 _Wait,_ he’d been told, as he’d packed his rifle bag, ready to leave for the last move on Sherlock.  _Wait,_ and so he will.

Sebastian sinks back down into the sheets, heaves a sigh, closes his eyes.

Doesn’t fall back asleep.

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The next time it’s the job in France, and the luck he’d had then, to make it in the nick of time — well this time it doesn’t hold. This time Sebastian’s late and Jim’s body is thudding down to the pavement, knife buried between his shoulder blades. Sebastian feels it as if it’s him that’s been stabbed and jerks awake, reaching out for his gun.

He pulls up his phone instead.

For a few moments his fingers hover over the keys, wanting to call up that still-memorized number, because until Jim returns, it’ll be the only way Sebastian will hear his voice.

_Sentiment._

Sebastian grits his teeth and shoves the phone under the pillow, then throws himself down after it. He forces himself to sleep, somehow, wakes up again in the cold light of dawn.

Waits.

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The next time it’s a car crash, Jim laughing and Sebastian watching and careless, careless, careless. The time after that it’s another sniper, someone else’s, and Sebastian’s blood freezes in the time between the sound of the gunshot and the feel of Jim’s limp body slumping into his arms. The time after it’s Jim himself in the bathtub, unable to resist the morbid curiosity to see if he could drown himself.

The time after, Sebastian throws the phone against the wall because he keeps waking up holding it. It doesn’t shatter, but the battery and its cover come off, and later when he picks it up Sebastian finds he’s cracked the screen a bit. He puts it back together gently, carefully, because if Jim returns, Sebastian will need to call him with it.

No, not if — until.

_Until._

**— — — — — — — — — —**

No more variations now, not after all these months. Now it’s just the roof, over and over, bursting through the doors and finding Jim’s body already gone, just the splash of blood on concrete left behind. The gun Sebastian had lent him ( _self-defense,_ Jim had said, filthy liar) is still there, lying innocuously on the ground. Every time, all the time — a muffled gunshot, barely discernible, and Sebastian’s running, fuck the rifle. And every time, all the time, he arrives on the roof too late. Jim is gone. Sebastian’s alone.

Wake up, phone in hand, throat tight. Unable to go back to sleep.

It’s weeks of this, and Sebastian wears himself down. The stubble comes and stays, just barely kept neat. The clothes get worn longer and longer. Food is forgotten.

Finally, it’s all too much. Sebastian gives in, bathed in the grey of daybreak, curled up in the sheets. He dials, lifts the phone to his ear, listens to it ring. Hangs up. Rinse, repeat, until finally Sebastian forces himself to let it ring through.

Voice mail.

Beep.

Silence.

"Jim." It feels weird, saying the word, the name, as if Sebastian’s tongue and lips have forgotten how to make the sound. "Jim. It’s — it’s me. I."

Pause.

He what?

"I’m sorry." For what? "I know you said not to call, to just wait and be good and you—" He’d what? Dead men didn’t come back. "Forget it." Sebastian laughs just as the beep comes, hangs up. Cradles the phone in his lap and laughs and dry sobs and laughs some more.

When Sherlock comes for him later that day — comes for the wasted tiger, too disillusioned to put up a fight — Sebastian realizes what he’d waited for.

He welcomes the bullet like an old friend, and darkness slips around him like a well-tailored suit.


	8. of kings and colds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: sick, sneezing (MorMor)**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

If you asked, Sebastian would be hard-pressed to say which he liked least — a Jim on drugs, or a Jim piss livid, or a Jim stuck at home, in bed, because of the flu. The first was damn near impossible to keep up with, and the second had a tendency to hurt, but the third — well, Sebastian always thought Jim couldn’t complain more, and was always proven wrong. He whined about  _everything,_ from the soup to the draft to the headache to the texture of the tissues Sebastian so unsympathetically supplied.

To be honest, the sniper was inches away from just stuffing the man with cold medicine to shut him the hell up, just for a few hours. The retribution after would be well worth it.

"Seba——achoo!" Jim twitched violently on the bed as another sneeze wracked his body, looking completely miserable and not at all like the head of a vast, terrifying criminal empire. His eyes were watery, his nose red, and his hair was stuck up all over like a porcupine — and that wasn’t to say anything about his rumpled shirt. Still, he managed to level a menacing (if sniffly) death glare at Sebastian, who looked up from his book just enough to cock an eyebrow from where he was sitting across the room.

"You rang?" he drawled, just catching his smirk even though Jim couldn’t see it.

Jim sniffed and glared harder, but was thwarted by yet another sneeze making him practically fold over. Sebastian’s lips twitched; he bit down to stop from laughing. Lord knew if Jim could exact revenge even in his state. Sebastian wouldn’t be surprised.

"Get me a glass of fucking water," Jim snapped, throwing himself back down onto the bed and burrowing his way into the sheets. "And soup."

Rolling his eyes (but amused all the same), Sebastian dropped the book and stood, figuring he might as well. He’d learned early on that most of the time, just doing as Jim said was the easiest way of things, no matter what he asked. Water, tinned soup (if Jim wanted better he’d have to bloody well  _stock_ his flat with better), couple of crackers. He briefly debated sneaking in a jalapeno; it would definitely clear up Jim’s nose. (And likely get him served his arse on a platter.)

"Bon appetite," he quipped sarcastically, waltzing back into the room to find Jim had more or less ensconced himself into a ball of blankets. A corner of Sebastian’s lips quirked up as his expression softened — it was clear from the steady rise and fall of the lump that Jim had fallen asleep.

About bloody time, too.

Setting the food down on the bedside table, Sebastian reached out to untuck part of the blanket, giving Jim a little more breathing room. Then he returned to his chair, took up the book, and resumed reading.

Peace and quiet at last.

Or well, peace, quiet and a load of sniffling, but Sebastian would take what he could get.


	9. of tigers and kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: summer, hunt (MorMor)**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

Most people would be bothered by the situation, really. Most people didn’t get high off the thrill of a manhunt in the middle of a New York summer, didn’t appreciate how the buildings and streets were just as much a hunting ground as the woods (albeit a bit more organized). Most people would balk at the idea of stalking one man, one rogue and dangerous man, through the concrete jungle, like the devil owed his due.

Most people weren’t Sebastian Moran.

"You’re purring, aren’t you, darling?" The voice in his ear drawled, lazy, arrogant. It put the smile on Sebastian’s face as he strolled down the street, casual as you please. He’d barely made it out of the hotel room in time, what with the way Jim had reacted to the suit he wore like a second skin. Made all four fittings worth it. "I can practically hear you," Jim went on, smirk bleeding through the comm line. "Like the great big tiger you are. Is my kittycat going to bring home a dead mousie for daddy?"

Unless he wanted to risk looking like a crazy person, Sebastian couldn’t very well reply, but he could grin, shark-like, and unnerve some of the people around him. He flashed a particularly pretty girl a wink (and almost snorted as she blushed) before fishing out the custom cigarette case Jim had gifted him with, a reward for a particularly spectacular and macabre torture of a Colombian drug lord. Slipping one cigarette out, he lit it, stowed the case back into the pocket (no bulge, never any outward sign that he was carrying anything, at Jim’s insistence). Took a long, sweet drag, head tipped back luxuriously.

"Christ, but I’d love to slit that throat," Jim murmured in his ear, just as a CCTV camera on a nearby building swiveled in his direction. "I’d find some way to do it without killing you, so I could stain it all red. Or I could just bite into it, draw blood, leave you with a ring of teeth marks for scars. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" The succeeding chuckle came with a crackle of static, and Sebastian’s grin turned downright  _wolfish,_ his own teeth digging into the cigarette between them. “You’d have to wear a scarf all the time, until the scars healed. All the better to strangle you with.”

Sebastian chanced ducking into a side alley, sauntering down alone, out of people’s view. “Careful, princess,” he drawled back, patting his suit jacket to make sure the knife he’d stowed there — Jim’s requested weapon — was still in its place. “Can’t have me too distracted on a hit, can we? Impatience makes a man go sloppy.”

"I’d be terribly disappointed if a little shop talk has you so bothered," Jim retorted, but Sebastian knew the boss was grinning, watching the feeds from their hotel room, probably sipping a whiskey to boot. "Come now, little soldier, I thought you were the best?"

"Damn skippy," Sebastian quipped, snickering, as he stubbed out his cigarette on a brick veneer wall and emerged back onto the main street. His target was two blocks away (a few minutes from what would be a very painful, very messy death) and Jim was waiting for him back at the hotel room for what was shaping to be a truly excellent shag. Christ, but this day couldn’t get any better.

"Mm, but I do like a man all riled up." And Sebastian laughed, head tipped up to the sky, and a man would die in a handful of minutes while Jim would whisper in his ear all the mad,  _mad_ things he’d do to the sniper once they were alone. Most people would be bothered by the situation, really.

Most people weren’t them, and more’s the pity.


	10. no longer hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt:** **blanket fort (Johnlock)**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

John Watson had learned very many things about Sherlock Holmes since the day they’d met — on the Hogwarts Express, no less, when John had stepped between a fuming Anderson and a haughty Sherlock. He’d learned that Sherlock loathed Charms and Divination (having walked out of the latter in their third year) but had a passion for Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’d learned that unless reminded, Sherlock forgot about meals altogether, preferring to hole up in the library or wander the castle grounds. He’d learned that Sherlock saw no point in Quidditch (“Why doesn’t the whole team just look for the Snitch?” “Because it’s the rules, Sherlock.” “Well then the rules are  _wrong_.”)

And now, in their fifth year and counting, he’d learned that if Sherlock felt slighted, or lonely, or even just simply sad, John wouldn’t bother looking for him in the library or the courtyard or even the secret hallway behind the statue of Doyle the Storyteller.

He was getting better at remembering  _not_ to mutter and look like an idiot as he paced in front of the blank stretch of wall, along the seventh floor corridor.

This time, it was a while before John could look for Sherlock, having been held up at Quidditch practice by Dimmock accidentally sending a Bludger careening into Lestrade’s head. Having deposited his injured friend in the hospital wing, and waved off Dimmock’s increasingly stammered apologies, John hiked up the Grand Staircase to the seventh floor and arrived at the Room of Requirement quite out of breath, Quidditch goggles absentmindedly still on his head.

"Sherlock?" he called tentatively as he opened the door. One could never be sure what one would find inside if Sherlock had gotten there first; John had once walked in on a pile of burnt-out dummies, with Sherlock prepping to lob spells at another line of them by the far wall. It paid to be careful.

Silence greeted him, which was a first — and a little worrying. John had only heard that something had happened (involving Sebastian Wilkes, the twat, and he was so going to hear from John about this), so he didn’t know how Sherlock had reacted. But upon entering the room, John found no devastation or chaos, just — well.

The room was moderately sized, and cozy. It was dimly lit, with a fireplace on one end and a string of magical lights at the other. Bookshelves lined one wall, stopping at the edge of a complicated arrangement of white sheets and fluffy cushions—

A  _blanket fort._ Sherlock had gone and made a blanket fort.

Deciding it could have been worse, John made his way over, hesitating only slightly before lifting one of the sheets to peer inside. Sherlock was lying down on the rug, propped up against one of the cushions, wandlessly twirling a pocket watch in midair. His eyes flicked down to John once, then back at the watch. John took it as an invitation.

"Comfy," he quipped with a half-smile, crawling in. Sherlock shifted over and John settled down beside him, adjusting some pillows to make himself comfortable. They lay there in silence for a while, hidden away from the world.

Sherlock was the one to break the silence.

"Mycroft and I used to build forts like this," he mused, turning the pocket watch in figure eights. "When I was younger, and the world was — noisy. We’d build one and he’d cast Silencing spells, so that if I was inside I couldn’t  _sense_ so much of everything. It was a way to make me feel safe.”

John stayed quiet, trying to radiate reassurance. After a few moments, he reached out, lightly touching fingers to Sherlock’s wrist. The pocket watch stalled for a bit, then resumed its circling.

Silence reigned, and John felt himself starting to doze off, post-practice exhaustion catching up with him. He was very nearly asleep when Sherlock carefully, carefully turn his hand up, and gently touch his fingers to John’s own.

"I feel safe with you," Sherlock said softly, and the pocket watch settled down on his chest. John’s breaths evened out, and Sherlock watched his friend sleep. They stayed that way the whole afternoon, until Sherlock shook John awake for dinner. As the door closed behind them, the blanket fort whirled out of existence, but John was a steadfast and constant presence beside him. Sherlock felt no need to hide away.


	11. got hearts in spades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: magic trick (MorMor)**

**— — — — — — — — — —**

Seb’s always been good at cards; it’s not something you ever question. Poker to Black Jack to Solitaire, card games are just another part of his arsenal. He has many reasons for his skills (not much else to do at stakeouts; big guns like their high stakes; add in a little stripping and it becomes a hell of a tease) and to this day, there are three things you can reliably find on his person: a knife, a cigarette case, and a pack of cards.

He’s got a little game of solitaire going (the pyramid kind, his favorite) when Jim finally comes home, the big Crown Jewels Trial over and done with. Sebastian’s just got home from a job in Berlin himself, but Jim doesn’t like him eating or going to bed before the man gets back, so he’s stuck entertaining himself to while away the time. He’s got four rows left as a familiar Hugo Boss cologne wafts over, and a hand plucks the cigarette from between his lips.

( _Register, actions: smoking, strolling; categorize: tired, not playing; safe._ )

"Queen and Ace," Jim drawls, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. Sebastian deliberately doesn’t look as he picks up the cards and tosses them onto the growing pile of pairs. He flips over the newly freed card and huffs. Eight of Clubs.

"Nothing in the shuffle, huh," Jim notes, coming around to settle beside him on the couch. The old, worn leather dips and creaks, and Jim throws an arm over the back. Sebastian shuffles the cards back up, only to be interrupted as Jim takes a few with a little slight of hand. Ace of Spades, Ace of Clubs, King of Diamonds.

Figures.

"Know any tricks, little soldier?" Jim asks ( _register, tone: light, lilting; categorize: curious, amused; safe_ ). He flips the cards around and grins, then lines them up and hands them back. Sebastian slides them in, frowning.

"Magic tricks? Really, Jim?" Seb snorts as he taps the deck on his palm once, twice. He knows Jim likes little amusements, childish whims, but card tricks seem too… pedestrian, for James Moriarty’s tastes.

"Humor me," Jim replies, raising his eyebrows with a little smirk. Seb shrugs and shuffles.

"Pick a card," he says with half a laugh, not quite believing he’s delivering that cheesy line to  _Jim_ of all people. He can remember using it to pick up women in all sorts of places, murmuring it low in their ears or delivering it with his trademark grin. But Jim, Jim smiles and licks his lips and leans forward slowly, sensually, and Sebastian can’t help but track the movement of that body all wrapped up in a suit. Then Jim’s leaning away, card held primly in his hand, one corner of his mouth quirked up.

Fuck.

Seb exhales sharply and shuffles the cards, bringing a leg up so he can lean back against the arm of the couch. He spreads the deck in his hands, careful to keep one thumb free. “Now put it back.”

Jim slides the card back with his cat-with-the-cream expression, the one that makes everyone feel like they’re missing out on something and only Jim’s in the know. Then the man leans an elbow against the couch, close enough to touch, and gestures for Sebastian to continue.

It’s an old trick, and a silly one, really, just a silly veneer to fascinate and pull a few laughs. Seb keeps the place marked as he shuffles, goes through well-practiced motions, but when he goes to pluck out Jim’s card he finds he’s lost it. A little chuckle makes him look up, and Jim reaches out, plucks a card from under his suit collar.

Sebastian forgets how to breathe for a moment, there.

"I tried to warn you," Jim sighs, seeming almost disappointed, though in what, Sebastian can’t say. It’s a disjointed sentence, like Jim’s having a completely different conversation entirely, one he expects Seb to be in but the sniper can’t even hear. With a  _tsk_ and a shake of his head, Jim sets his card on the top of the deck and gets up, wanders into the kitchen. The tell-tale sounds of a glass and a bottle filter through.

There’s a sense of — of loss, there in the space that Jim left, try as Sebastian might not to feel it. He snorts, flips Jim’s card over with a little more force than necessary. Then stops.

It’s the Ace of Hearts.

( _Register, actions: — Jim, Jim I don’t understand._ )

**xxxxxxxxxx**

When Sebastian gets back to the apartment, gasping and shattered and trying desperately not to fall apart, he finds the place stripped bare, as if never had any occupants. There’s nothing left, none of the little personal touches, nothing of the home they’d made in the little place high above London. Seb stumbles from room to room, looking for something,  _anything,_ any reminder of Jim at all.

He finds one. In Jim’s bedroom, sitting on top of the mattress. A copy of  _Dynamics of an Asteroid_ lies there, Jim’s old copy, wearing out at the spine. Seb picks it up with trepidation, hands shaking (Jim isn’t here anymore to chastise him for sentiment, no).

There’s a place marked, in the middle of the book. Something’s stuck between the pages. Sebastian flips it open. It’s pretty obvious the page was chosen arbitrarily; Seb can’t think of why Jim would to tell him about all this math from the dead. It’s what’s in the book that really matters.

He lets the book fall back down to the mattress, crumples the placeholder in his fist. Damn Jim.  _Damn_ Jim and that  _fucking_ obsession with Holmes.

Damn Jim for leaving Seb with a broken empire, a single book, and an Ace of Hearts.


	12. love in the time of post-it notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of two-word prompt ficlets, cross-posted from my [Tumblr](thestratospheric.tumblr.com/tagged/two-word-prompt). To be added to as prompts come in and are filled.

**Prompt: write a sweet ooq one shot? i love just like….worn out james post mission and saucy, bickering Q, but they both end up snuggling**  
*technically not a two-word prompt, yes, but I'm lumping it here anyway

**— — — — — — — — — —**

The thing is, when they get down to it, they’re both too dedicated to their jobs. When Bond manages to get home post-mission, Q’s still at the office, juggling three agents on-field while remotely getting into a chemical powerplant and blowing it up. And when Q stumbles back to the flat, half-dead from a 42-hour work run and unable to see straight, Bond’s boarding a plane to Tunisia, or flirting with a mark in Berlin, or trying to get out of Manila. Half their relationship consists of missing each other, quite literally, but they make it work. It’s all counts of messed up and crazy, but they’re not Agent 007 and the Quartermaster for nothing.

Their stubbornness is legendary, and by god they make themselves work.

The ante gets upped a little, though, when Bond totters into the flat fresh off a flight from Cairo. He shuffles his way to the kitchen, dropping his bag along the way and almost quashing Sofia in the process. The cat hisses, pawing at his trouser leg, but Bond pays her no heed, intent on getting himself a glass or six of the Macallan he knows he left in the fridge.

It’s not there.

The liquor shelf in the pantry is completely empty. Instead, there’s just a single Post-It note stuck to the wall behind, and Bond can  _just_ imagine Q’s insufferable, brook-no-arguments tone. He drops the note to the floor, where Sofia pounces on it instantly, and heads off to the bedroom, determined  _not_ to give Q the satisfaction. Absolutely not.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_You should be in Medical. Scotch is not an antibiotic.  
_ _Q._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Q wakes up after fourteen solid hours of sleep, having spent the last three days in the office, catnapping only when absolutely necessary. The Hong Kong fiasco is done, and he’s successfully repelled the latest cyber-attack on their system, so M has forced him home and forbidden him entering Q-Branch before one in the afternoon. Q stumbles out of bed, grumbling and almost stepping on Sofia, who miaows at him plaintively for her breakfast. He makes for the shower, and after a piss and some cold water to his face, feels a little more human. But when he goes to his closet to scrounge some clothes for the day, he finds his motley collection of cardigans absent. Instead, a choice selection of blazers and jackets is in their place, in good solid colors. The neat row of hangers mocks him.

There’s a Post-It stuck to the mirror on the inside of the closet door. Q peers at it blearily.

_If you so insist on looking twenty-five, at least dress your age. Also I charged the bill for a new shipment of liquor to your account.  
_ _Cheers,  
_ _Bond._

Q huffs and snatches the note down, balling it up in his fist. Bond’s taken  _everything,_ down to the white-and-navy-blue striped one that Q’s particularly fond of. Damned agent; he’d probably carted everything off last night before heading for Sao Paolo, knowing Q wouldn’t notice until he was well away.

Well then. If that’s the way Agent bloody Double-O-Seven wants to play, then by  _god,_ Q will play.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

And so it begins. The notes begin to pepper the flat, increasingly irritated on Bond’s part ( _why the fuck did you get rid of the coffee for, do you ever buy anything except hash browns and chicken nuggets, will you program that damned cat not to shed all over my good suits for fuck’s sake_ ) and sardonic on Q’s ( _tea is healthier for you old man, there’s a nifty thing called a grocery see or if not god forbid there’s takeaway, animals are not programmable 007 else I’d program you to return your equipment a bit more often mm?_ ). They collect in a little drawer in their bedroom when they aren’t dropped to the floor to be torn apart by the cat, and both parties would never admit but it’s actually rather fun. They last about eleven weeks before Q finally comes home to find Bond on the couch, swigging liberally from a bottle of Guinness. _  
_

In hindsight, the beer really should have been the first indicator that something was wrong. But Q’s too frazzled to give a shit.

"What, no eloquent Post-It for me tonight, 007?" he says as he enters, tossing his keys onto the foyer table and dropping his bag at the foot of it. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it arbitrarily over a chair, and stalks into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

The difference is so striking as to almost be laughable.

There’s no reply from Bond, which rankles Q a little — Bond’s famous for always having a comeback, what gives? He turns away from the stove, brow furrowed, arms crossed. Bond’s still sprawled on the couch.

"Not even say a  _welcome home, Q_ or a comment on the sheer amount of electronics or, heaven forbid, a reminder that tea is not actually food and I might want to actually  _consume_ something lest a good wind knock me right o—”

“ _Q,_ " Bond grates out, the first sound he’s made all evening. Q exhales vindictively, glad to have finally gotten a reaction. He’s been raring to get into a snit with someone; it’s been a rough past few days, and to be honest Bond’s usual mission antics hadn’t helped in the slightest.  _Let_ Bond be mad. Q can match him.

Except.

Except he’s not. Bond’s sat up slightly, but the expression on his face is too worn to be a glare. He looks exhausted, just half-heartedly frowning at Q over the back of the couch, before dropping back. Q hears the  _thunk_ of the beer bottle hitting the carpet. “Not tonight,” Bond says wearily, quietly. 

"Bond—"

“ _Please._ " It’s a bit firmer now, but still tired. The kettle whistles behind him, and Q reaches back to turn off the stove. Instead of getting his mug and a teabag, though, he pads over to the couch, feeling a little sheepish. The fight’s draining out of him, leaving him feeling guilty and slightly-wrung out like a washcloth. 

“ _Q—_ " but the quartermaster cuts him off.

"I’m sorry." Bond has an arm slung across his eyes, but at Q’s apology he lifts it, squinting up at Q with bleary eyes. Q barrels on regardless. "I was in a snit and — well, never mind me. Come on." He purses his lips, then jerks his head toward the bedroom door. "We’re both due some sleep."

Bond blinks once, twice. Nods. Gets awkwardly to his feet. Q makes for their bedroom but Bond catches him first, wrapping strong arms around a lithe waist and burying his face in the crook of Q’s neck. They stand there for a while, holding each other in the dim light of the flat, until at last Bond pulls away and leads them to bed.

The thing is, when they get down to it, they’re both too dedicated to their jobs. No doubt some international crisis will wrangle Q from the sheets far too early, or some terrorist will crop up at breakfast and Bond will have to spirit away. But they take the time they have together and milk it for all it’s worth, and ease their time apart with  _until next time_ instead of  _goodbye._ And in times like these, when Q is wound around Bond with his head on the man’s chest, and Bond idly strokes that riot of curls until he finally falls asleep — it’s times like these that the jobs don’t matter. They’re not agent and quartermaster, not here; they’re lovers in bed, and Q snuggles closer as Bond kisses his temple.

It’s not perfect, never will be, but they make it work.


End file.
